Unacceptable Redux
by Aysean
Summary: After the destruction of the Collector base, Shepard finds that she must come to terms with her prior death, and pull her jumbled life together in order to succeed in the coming Reaper threat. Contains spoilers, rating subject to change. FemShep/Garrus
1. Chapter 1

**Unacceptable**

- Chapter 1-

"Shepard." The Illusive Man's oily, businessman tone grated on Shepard's nerves. "You're making a habit of costing me more than time and money."

Shepard was aware of her teeth gritting together most uncomfortably. Tense muscles transferred her laden weight from one foot to another, the press of her weapons against her sore, tired back. "Too many lives were lost at that base. I'm not sorry it's gone," she replied evenly.

"The first of many lives," the Illusive Man puffed deeply on his cigarette, his eyes closing as he savoured the heady draught; one of the few things he found favourable at the moment. "The technology from that base could have secured human dominance in the galaxy. Against the Reapers and beyond."

"Human dominance, or just Cerberus?" Shepard spat, her eyes narrowing in disgust.

Stillness filled the air for what seemed an eternity. Flames of rage danced in Shepard's tired eyes as she watched the calculated tapping of the cigarette in the ashtray. "Strength for Cerberus is strength for every human." The businessman unfolded his legs and rose to his feet, quick to shorten the distance between the twin image of Shepard and himself. "Cerberus _is_ humanity. I should have known you'd choke on the hard decisions," he accused, brandishing a finger in blame. "Too idealistic from the start."

"I'm not looking for your approval. Harbinger is coming, and he won't be alone." Shepard straightened her back, military habit forcing her to stand straight when she spoke. Yet venom laced each spoken syllable that left her lips. "Humanity needs a leader who's looking out for them. From now on, I'm doing things my way, whether you agree or not."

That statement was the last straw. The Illusive Man bristled with rage, his imposing form quick to narrow the distance so that he was only a foot from the flickering image of Shepard. His brow was creased in anger, shoulders stiff. "Don't turn your back on me, Shepard! I made you. I brought you back from the dead."

It was a moment before Shepard could find a remotely polite response to the situation. Myriads of vulgar profanities seemed immediately, yet foolishly acceptable. "Joker," she prompted eventually, eyes glancing upward. "Lose this channel."

The last image of the Illusive Man's seething expression seemed burned into her mind as she turned sharply on her heel. His parting gift was the Commander's strong gait as she strode away before the feed was cut.

Commander Shepard felt conflicted. She was sure her decisions were correct; each and every single one. She froze in the doorway, framed by the wreckage as her body crumbled against the edge of the steel beam she had righted moments before. The sharp bite of cold metal pressed against her sweaty cheek. It brought with it the pain of every beating and bullet she had taken no more than half an hour ago. Her chest heaved in a painful sigh. It seemed more like an eternity ago now.

Shepard's fingers gripped the edges of the beam tightly, forehead banging loudly as it came to rest against the plated region of her outstretched arm. "Damn it," she grumbled, eyes squeezing shut. A flood of emotion overwhelmed her: fear, anguish, anxiety, elation, suspense. Dread. Every sensation battled for dominance in her mind, wrenching at her heart as it caught up to her. A soldier had no room for petty emotions on the battlefield. Not when so much was at stake, threatening to take control of clear-headed thinking and sound reason. Yet she was still human, not a machine. This was sentience, what it meant to live, to feel, to think for oneself. It could not be suppressed indefinitely.

Her pale green eyes glanced downward to the wreckage littering the floor at her feet, her boot crushing the remnants of what was once the plastic panel covering a light fixture. It brought memories of the old Normandy; memories that she pushed into the far recesses of her mind as she shook her short, auburn hair, wispy and in a mess, off her face. Shepard's eyes squeezed tightly, forcing the hot tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks away with a heavy breath. In and out. The act jarred her ribs, prompting her to return to the present; to stop dwelling on mistakes that might have been made and focus on the situation at hand. They were still in danger, as she saw it.

'_If I cried my heart out every single time I ran into a problem, I would have failed long ago. My crew needs me'._ The thought brought some purpose, overriding the aches and pains of fractured ribs, the poorly attended gunshot wounds and the sensation of fire ripping through her leg where she was sure she had sprained her ankle. Granted, Cerberus had made sure that they brought her back harder, faster, stronger than before; cybernetic implants, multiple skin and bone weaves to dispense medi-gel. In the long run, they were a poor substitute for an organism's natural healing process. It was technology meant to keep you alive for the moment. First aid, one could call it.

Pity there was nothing similar for Shepard's troubled mind. Determination was her mental crutch, carrying her into the ruined Combat Information Centre as the stoic, collected figure of the Commander she aspired to be. The upturned faces of her crew greeted her, eyes beaming with victory, yet expressions resolute. They had all survived the Collector base, but a greater threat approached them. The thought sent shivers down Shepard's back, her fingers clenching against her thigh.

"Commander."

The voice brought her to a halt, weight resting uncomfortably on her bad leg. Amid the debris her team struggled to clear, Joker approached her, his fingers gripping an ominous looking datapad. "I thought you might want this."

Shepard glanced at the information in her hand, breath catching in her throat at the sight of numerous Reaper schematics. "EDI managed to download this much from the Collector base before it was destroyed. I know you meant to destroy everything, but - "

"That's fine, Joker," Shepard assured, her hand gripping the helmsman's shoulder. He met her eyes almost sheepishly, worry etched into the fine lines around his eyes. It troubled Shepard to see them there. Jeff did not deserve any of the anguish they had been put through. Her death, in particular, had hit him hard. To see his Commander, the one person he had come to admire, to worship almost, die for him – to give her life so that he could survive – it had broken his heart more than once during those two years.

"Commander," he mumbled. "I'm glad – I'm glad you made it. Everyone else too."

"So am I Joker." Shepard swallowed dryly, her throat suddenly parched. For his sake, her crew's sake, she smiled, albeit quite falsely. "So am I. But we're not through this yet. First things first, we clean up this mess the Collectors left us with."

"Yeah, alright," he grinned despite himself, stepping aside for the Commander to continue toward the remnants of the galaxy map. The eyes of the crew followed her every limping step. It gave Shepard the sensation of being an exhibit on display at a national museum. Worse, she felt like the space hamster sitting on the shelf in her cabin. A treacle of guilt gripped her as she contemplated the outcome of the hapless fuzz ball. Surely it had lived, right?

"Whatever happens," Joker's voice followed her. "We're with you, Commander."

Shepard turned to face the room, each individual looking to her with such fierce expressions of the same determination she so weakly clung to. Something stirred within her. A sense of pride. Pride in her crew; their bravery, their actions. Warmth unlike any other flooded through her, giving her strength. Faint, a mournful sigh pushed past her defences. Shepard knew now, for sure, that her decisions were correct. For now, for this moment, their loyalty, their friendship, their lives, told her she had made the right choice.

If only her wounds would have let her enjoy the moment.

However it had transpired, Shepard found herself leaning heavily on the ruined balustrade surrounding the inoperative map. The Commander became quickly aware she felt much like shit. Nay, she felt worse, if that was possible to express. Like two shits? A groan pushed past her lips, chin falling to her chest in a sudden release. Adrenaline lasted only so long. "Being beaten to a pulp with a sack of bricks would hurt less," she grumbled, clenching the edge of the railing.

"Now, I'm sure it's nothing so dramatic."

Shepard could have recognized that voice anywhere. The humming undertones, audible even with the translator's effects were a standard tipoff. "Garrus, if you weren't my _bestest_ friend – " Shepard made sure to draw out the syllables as sarcastically as she could. "I would have had a little something to say that would have made your ears wilt." His chuckle was deep and playful, but there was a sadness there. She reached back and softly rapped her knuckles against his armour.

"So you're going to hit me instead? I am so deeply honoured, Commander." The unexpected change to seriousness that followed in his tone struck her sharply. "Honestly, if you continue at this rate, you're going to get yourself killed…" He trailed off softly. Though her back was to the alien, she could envision the grimace on his face. _Yeah,_ she sighed, bracing her weight against the bar more securely. '_I already died once, remember? Big deal.'_

Her reluctance to continue the conversation bit deeply into her conscience. It was a subject not to be broached; she had made that clear enough. Nausea flooded her as if she had dipped neck-deep into a pond of krogan waste. Her damp, sweat-drenched hair was plastered to her cheeks, reminding her of clammy, bloodied hands – a leftover memento from Akuze. The cries of her comrades as they were ripped to shreds by the thresher maw tore at her mind. Something warm, solid, startled her from the dark thoughts that plagued her. Garrus's taloned hand, firmly wrapped against her upper arm, beckoning for her to straighten out.

"You'd better come with me to the medical bay."

"Garrus, I'll be alright." Her tone was sharp; to the point. It if was one thing Shepard hated, it was the incessant worrying the crew gave over her own health. Hypocritical, she knew, given her own share of constant 'checking in'. "Dr. Chakwas has a dozen other crewmembers to attend to. She's busy. In fact, she should be worrying about herself as well! After what they went through on that base..."

"Commander..."

Shepard scoffed. "Garrus, I said I'm fine. Really, look." It was a stupid idea for her to try and prove it. She took her own false affirmations to heart – as they said, you tell a lie enough times, you end up believing it – and in the heat of the moment, pulled herself upright to face Vakarian. Bad move. She caught sight of the warning light flashing on her wrist far too late; her armour's attempt to scream to her that it was out of medi-gel packs and had been for some time. No sooner had she completed the turn, a smug grin already on her face, did the pain hit with the force of an asteroid. Nothing was left to numb the sensations now.

Shepard doubled over, her forehead smacking against the turian's chest. She wanted to remark that her vision was black and her lungs were having trouble drawing breath, for one. Given the previous conclusion however, her air was best reserved for blood oxygenation. Trust Shepard to be as stubborn as she could be, making a fool of herself in front of the rest of the crew, she was sure. The mighty Commander! Defeated by a few broken ribs and gunshots. Bah!

She could almost hear the turian officer launch into a triumphant, 'I told you so'. Shepard only groaned.

"Enough of this, Shepard," he growled, the resonant hums in his voice deep and threatening. Was he scolding her? Surely, he would abstain. The use of her last name further added weight to his words, despite their being in a low whisper. At the very least, his convention of military conduct kept him from openly defying a superior. "I've had enough of your stubborn pride. Do you want to die aga-?"

Garrus caught the hitch in his own voice far too late to hide it. Why, why, why was he constantly referring to her death? Something in his chest, a pang that squeezed his heart uncomfortably, prevented him from attempting to complete the sentence. Shepard caught it too, her bleary, darkened vision staring straight into the turian's shoulder. She was vaguely aware of him forcing her to move. "If you won't see Chakwas by your own accord, then dragging you down there will do."

Leave it to Shepard to continue struggling in vain.

It struck Garrus rather sharply just why humanity had risen so quickly in power and dominance since the turian encounter with their kind in the Relay 314 Incident; the First Contact War. Their kind was strong, inquisitive, and full of motivation and willpower. Granted, their bodies were fragile, so easily wounded and torn by the slightest of implements. It was this very fact that seemed to compel them, drive them forward to reach newer and greater heights in their evolution, one could say. It was an admirable quality, indeed, but one that branded them as the bully of the galaxy. The other races, Council and non-Council alike, found it hard to deal with humanity's demands at times.

Shepard was a breath of fresh air. A welcome change in the constant, beleaguering attitudes of the xenophobic masses of humans he had often encountered on the Citadel during his work with C-Sec. Garrus couldn't help but wonder if this opinion was influenced by his privileged knowledge of the Commander. Commander Shepard was his most trusted friend, his comrade; the one person to whom he would gladly entrust his life.

To see her before him, wounded, broken – no, _not _broken – but tired, fatigued, ill-at-ease, made him wonder if perhaps she shouldered too many burdens. Surely, had she asked, he would have lent his aid in an instant.

Garrus's own mental rambling was cut short by the familiar hiss of the elevator doors drawing aside. "Honestly Garrus," Shepard was continuing her tirade of half-mumbled excuses. His mandibles flared in frustration. '_Too stubborn,' _he thought to himself. "If it will get you off my back, I will go and see Dr. Chakwas."

He sighed deeply, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his short, turian nose with his taloned hand. "It will," he grumbled to the closing elevator door.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"_On your six!" A voice screamed, piercing and shrill. It rattled Shepard's brain, drowning out the heavy echoes of her own breath. Her pulse hammered in her skull, body stiff and rigid. Instinctively, she twisted downward toward cover, scraping her shoulder against the edge of the metal protrusion aboard the Collector platform. Something felt off, as if terribly wrong. Green eyes darted to her shoulder. A long gash was visible in the ablative material and the heavy weave of the bio-suit underneath, ripping into her fragile skin. She'd been slow in avoiding the attack. A mixture of blood and medi-gel coated the scrape, wet and uncomfortable. It trickled underneath the material of her suit, oozing a thick concoction of slime, like a slug, against her hot skin. There was no room for error. Immediately, her suit VI had dispensed the required quantity to seal the tear and the wound. _

_A loud crash jostled Shepard's cover. Her eyes squeezed tight._

"_One," she whispered. "Two..."_

"_Three." She forced her body upward, gun readied against her shoulder. She did not expect the gruesome sight of the Scion aiming its weapon toward her, steady humming indicating it was charging for another shot. The prospect stunned her momentarily, but she managed a quick burst from her assault rifle and rolled, frantically trying to push her weight forward to the next protrusion for cover._

_Her body sought purchase on the smooth, inclined plane of the teetering platform, scrabbling for any hold. Disoriented, Shepard felt her body slip. Suddenly, any presence of contact was removed; she was falling, her fingers scrabbling for the ground. Darkness encompassed her. Fingers were burrowing underneath the collar of her bio-suit, tearing at the material. Cold, clammy, bloodied fingers. Screams and howls rent the air, filling her mind with countless horrors that her subconscious worked up in an instant. Her eyes snapped open to empty sockets, a toothless maw, a mass of fleshy, pulpy meat twisting in a dark cavern, like a tongue. Screams and cries begged her for salvation, pulling on her hair, her limbs, her clothing, dragging her down into the darkness._

_Wet and hot, she could feel their fingers smearing blood and rotten, decaying flesh against her face and neck, their digits pushing their way up into her nose and mouth, suffocating her. They cried, they pleaded, swollen tongues writhing in their mouths like damp worms. They begged not to be dissolved, to be killed; victims of the Collector's cruel Reaper factory. Shepard stifled a scream, gagging on the feel of fingers forcing their way down her throat. _

_Any and all military training had fled from Shepard's mind; her only instinct was to claw and tear at the hands, to kick viciously at the upturned, disintegrating faces. The heel of her boot connected with the temple of a crying victim; it squelched as if she had stepped on an overripe melon as her boot pushed through its skull. She ripped the fingers and hands from her face, shivers coursing down her spine. Shepard's eyes opened wide, a frantic shake forcing her to squirm and tear at her assailants. Where her boots had split a victim's skull, maggots poured from the wound, writhing across her body._

"_H-Help!" She choked feebly. "Help!" Her own voice sounded weak and far away, no more than a whisper. She tried to run, to flee. Nothing worked. Her limbs were stiff, frozen and sluggish. She didn't know where she was anymore. Her legs seemed to move in slow motion, hands grabbing at her boots, her shins. Wherever her foot connected with the ground, it felt soft and malleable; the bodies of thousands of maggots writhing among the corpses of rejected victims. It was the piles of victims whose genetic material had been too inferior for the Reaper's construction._

_More fingers, hard and sharp, scratched across her back. No, not fingers, but the pains and stings of bullets tearing into her flesh. Some ability had kicked in once more, enabling her to run. The scene seemed to have changed. She was sprinting now. The Collectors were chasing her. Ahead was the Normandy._

'_Almost there.' Shepard ran harder, her arms pumping at her side. Another shot. It tore into her calf muscle, tripping her to the hard ground underneath her feet. The Collectors were catching up fast, pushing with the desperation of a thousand hounds flayed by their master's whip. They were gaining on her. She scrambled for purchase, forcing her body upward to rise to her feet. Something was ahead; she caught sight of it from above; a falling piece of the Collector structure, plummeting toward the platforms before the Normandy._

_Shepard jumped._

_A burning sensation pushed into her mind. "Human. You've changed nothing." Fire flared into her mind as the voice spoke. She bit her lip, as if meaning to override one pain with another. "Your species has the attention of those infinitely your greater." The Commander became aware of another scream. It bubbled its way to the forefront, extinguishing the lingering screams of the victims that had grabbed at her. It was her own, shrill and pained, so full of anguish it sounded monstrous and inhuman._

"_That which you know as Reapers is your salvation through destruction," it spoke. "You have failed. We will find another way." The hull came closer and closer. She could see the open airlock, her fingers reaching. 'Almost there! Almost!' She grabbed at the side of the ship, felt the slap of the metal against her palm. Then nothing. _

_She slipped, Joker's screams ripping through the air. "Commander! NO!"_

"_Releasing control." The words echoed through her mind. It grew dark. _

No. No...

"No!"

The need for air burned at Shepard's lungs, her body rocketing upward with explosive force. Desperate and scared, she sought for a gun, hands scrabbling at her hip and back, body twisting every which way. Wait, no, she was...

It was a dream. A ridiculous, nonsensical nightmare.

Shepard's movements stilled, her chest heaving with each successive pant and gasp. Her body ached as if she had run a marathon, heart pounding like a hammer. She was shivering, cold, her arms instinctively wrapping about her body, pale green eyes searching her surroundings for an answer; the medical bay.

'_That's right, Garrus insisted I come down,' _she mulled over the thought. Recollections began to return to her clearing mind, and for that she was glad. Though the nightmare was fading, the crazed visions left her feeling sick and weary. Shepard wondered if she would be able to close her eyes anytime soon without the disturbing thoughts harassing her mind. For now, she focused on recounting how she had ended up here, asleep on a bed among the more wounded of the crew. Her eyes spotted Hawthorne at the opposite end of the room, sedated no doubt. The lights were dimmed, the doctor nowhere to be found. Graveyard hours.

Yes, she remembered now. Dr. Chakwas had insisted she stay, though the Commander was still not quite sure why. "_I don't quite like the manner in which your ribs have set," _the doctor's voice floated through Shepard's mind as if on cue. "_They're going to have to be re-set now while they're still freshly bonded. I'm sorry, Commander, but I'm afraid this will hurt a bit."_

"I guess that's the reason," Shepard grumbled, prodding her side. It felt sore and tender to the touch. With a grimace, she realized the doctor had had to re-break the bones to fit them properly in place. A chill gripped her. It dawned on her that she was wearing only the underlayer of her armour, specifically, the torn bio-suit. All the ceramic, ablative plates had been removed, to increase her comfort while she remained asleep. Her boots were gone as well, bare toes greeting Shepard's inquisitive view. She felt childish as she wiggled her toes back and forth, observing the way her big toes always moved opposite to the remaining four.

There was a bandage on her right leg, binding the ankle tightly. Shepard brought her leg in, crossing it in front of her on the bed, surprised at the ease of movement she had without the restricting plates secured against her body. Only the spinal sections remained, for they clacked mechanically when she bent over to examine what lay underneath the pristine, elastic material immobilizing her joint. The skin underneath was black and swollen; _fleshy, pulpy meat... damp worms._

The Commander's body froze stiff, her eyes painfully wide. '_No, no,' _she struggled. '_Not that again.' _ Her fingers released the bandage, the material snapping back into place before she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, slipping to her feet. A sharp twinge rocketed through her right leg, her eyes screwing shut as she sucked air through her teeth in pain. A momentary discomfort; she had already suppressed it.

There was no further purpose in lingering here. More pressing matters where at hand, for example, getting the Normandy to port for repairs. '_Omega is closest, but not my first choice,'_ she deduced, running her fingers through her hair as she thought. Ilium would have made a much better alternative. There was no shortage of materials or competent workers in the trade port of Nos Astra. In Omega, those two resources were a grand opposition to getting anything done in a timely fashion. Her body lurched forward toward the door. Shepard sighed. She was not used to such weakness on her part, let alone the feeling of not being in control of her own body quite as much as she aspired to be.

Her bare feet slapped against the cold floor, fingers tapping against her thigh in a steady cadence. A marching beat, she recognized, making a fist to still it. The act gave her a feeling of discontent, bringing to the forefront memories of her N7 training. Shepard had to admit, bittersweet as it was, that she had come a long way since then. So much had happened, good and bad. Gloved fingers brushed against the haptic display, the door hissing open in reply.

The Normandy was still, the hum of the engine evident in the forefront. It was a soothing noise, given her long history of serving, and living aboard ships, following her parents through their assignments. However, it served the purpose of confirming that the ship was indeed moving; Miranda would have issued orders in her stead.

"You shouldn't be up."

Shepard started, her body pinning itself against the wall. "You mean to tell me that you've been sitting here this entire time?" she chided as soon as words came back to her. Garrus's eyes gave the impression that he was tired. Shepard found a bit of herself while looking into them, recognizing her own fatigue. One would have assumed that with the sleep she had woken from, her mind would be refreshed. Hardly the case, it seemed.

The turian glanced aside, his arms coming up to fold across his massive chest. "I heard... screams," he replied at length. Why did he seem so forlorn? "I came to see if everything is alright."

"And it is," Shepard grumbled, shaking the hair out of her eyes. A few insidious thoughts wormed their way into her mind; was the officer was lying to her. "Besides, if you came to check on me, why is it that you're sitting at the mess table?" He only huffed and pulled himself up, closing the distance between them quickly. Shepard found herself uncomfortably pinned up against the wall.

Her mood was equal parts regret and discomfort. For one, the intimate nature of the situation, despite her closeness to Vakarian as a friend, was something she was not accustomed to with anyone. She remembered quite clearly Alenko's affection, her own attempts to escape it and the discomfort that arose whenever she spoke to him after his confession. '_Until Virmire_,' the thought flashed through her midn. Shepard found herself rubbing at her eyes with one hand, her guilt gnawing at her insides. It was a profound hurt; another choice that ate at her.

Not that the situation was any less comfortable for the turian. Not due to the friendly concern on his part, but rather the nature of the Commander's state of dress – rather, undress – served as a bit of a situational shock to the turian. Ragged flesh showed through the tears in the suit, bringing attention to the worry now in the forefront of his mind. Human injuries had a fatalistic air to them, especially in comparison to that of a turian. It was all pink, ragged flesh bordered by purplish bruises where the ablative had not been enough to stop the force of projectiles. It was a concept that required getting used to, especially given how Shepard stood before him, the very picture of a pasta strainer.

"How long was I out?"  
"Beg pardon?"  
"Asleep?" Shepard clarified.

"No more than four hours. Dr. Chakwas was efficient, it seems." Shepard took the news with a nod of her head. '_Stubborn_,' Garrus found himself thinking once more. Nothing was ever acceptable for the Commander. Something more was always in need of completion; just one more assignment, one more mission, one more intervention. How many more 'one mores' did she need to blindly undergo? Was it selfish for Garrus to wish that for once she would take more care of herself? Was it so wrong for him to harbour such strong emotions of distaste when she blatantly tossed her well-being aside? Garrus felt mildly brutish; this was all done to protect innocents. Yet for once, he wanted to see her safe; alive, with the same fire in her eyes that he had encountered in Dr. Michel's office so long ago.

That fire was slowly extinguished in the aftermath of the Battle of the Citadel. The turian had watched it seep away, slowly at first, so much so that he had never noticed its presence diminish. Perhaps it was her sense of guilt weighing heavily on her shoulders. Akuze and Virmire popped into his mind immediately.

"_Unacceptable,"_ he had heard her screaming that night. To hear her pound her fists against the bulkhead of the ship, ragged breaths, muffled anguish, hushed so that none would hear her self-loathing. The loss of Alenko had been a deep wound. Garrus was unsure if he would have been able to make the same decision had he been in her position. Something within him seconded that thought.

Shepard was saying something, he realized.

" – Miranda has us on course for Omega? I would also like an integrity report on the Thannix cannons." Duties, Garrus confirmed with a sigh. Looks like he hadn't missed much while spacing out.

"Right away." He caught the quirk in Shepard's eyebrow given his anything but standard response. Her own arms rose up to fold across one another in mimicry of his own posture, though the added hint was clear in her movements. What was wrong with him, he imagined her thinking.

"Something you need to talk about, Garrus?"  
"I was wondering if you had a moment, Shepard." The brow had quirked again, and she made a movement with her hand as if to highlight her body, pointing out it was hardly the best time. He was about to retract his comment when she motioned for him to go on and continue.

She had to admit; the prospect of such an impromptu talk piqued her curiousity. At the same time, she loathed the idea that he might be able to see through her 'tough guy' act. The nightmare, its crazed jumble of emotions and events, both true and untrue, unrealistic, disturbed her more than any other idea. Not even the notion of going into a suicide mission, going to her death, was more terrifying than what she had seen. It was not that the images were disturbing to such an insurmountable degree. Rather, it was the risk they held of returning at any given time, worse than before. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw some scene flicker across the canvas of her closed eyelids.

"Shepard," Garrus spoke softly, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. "I'm worried about you." She nearly choked in reply, already formulating some staunched comment to brush him off. The turian continued before she had a chance to voice even a syllable. "You've been through a lot; Akuze, Virmire, Saren and Sovereign, the Collector attack. Now there's this. What I mean to say is –" Garrus sighed, his head tilting aside with the calculated movements of a predator. "Well, perhaps you should take it easy. Take a breather from the high-risk missions."

"The ship _does_ require repairs," Shepard blurted quickly, clearly missing the entire point of his comments. All that had registered in her mind was a recollection of turian preparations for 'high-risk operations'. "_We, ah, ended up holding a tiebreaker in her quarters. I had reach, but she had flexibility. More than one way to work off stress, I guess."_ She'd turned a bright red. Really, bright red was a bit of an understatement; rather, she looked like she had inherited the facial features of a pickled beet. No doubt, she looked very similar at this very moment. She could feel the heat radiating from her burning cheeks.

"B-But," she stammered, her fingers coming up to rest against Garrus's hand gingerly. "Thank you, Garrus. I couldn't have done any of this without you." And she smiled; a smile that shocked Vakarian more than anything else she could have said. He was stuck in a daze, blinking like a fool on too little sleep. "We'll talk later, Garrus."

Shepard limped away, berating herself for her idiocy in low mumbles. There was no way she could have noticed the way the turian froze, the ghostly feel of her touch still lingering on the back of his hand.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"_Releasing control... "_

"Commander," the comm channel crackled. Shepard bolted upright, reaching for the familiar feel of her sheets. Sweat laced her brow, her body warm and uncomfortable underneath the formal Cerberus uniform. The Commander glanced about nervously, wiping at her forehead with the sleeve of her coat. She had forgotten she was sleeping in the portside observatory, given the unexpected damage report she received earlier.

"We're coming in on Omega, thought you might want to know," Joker's voice continued on the line.

"Thank you Joker, I'll be right up." She had boarded the elevator after her little chat with Garrus. Shepard had jabbed at the controls with one finger, fidgeting impatiently. "_All access to the Captain's Quarters has been restricted," _she was informed by EDI. "_Severe impact fractures have resulted in a depressurization risk."_ Apparently, the protective shielding had activated a moment too late and a loose, high-velocity ship fragment, hurtling about through space, had slipped in at the correct moment. The shielding had sealed off the room, but not before the debris had fragmented the glass. It didn't take much for the constant jostling of their crash landing to fully shatter the pane, blanketing shards throughout the room.

Naturally, all the other spaces aboard the Normandy were otherwise occupied, and so, the Commander found herself dragging her carcass down to the closest thing to a resting spot. She'd ended up slinking her way through the hallway, loathe to let the turian see she had erred. Of course, Shepard had merely turned herself into an idiot; the turian had retreated to the forward battery, replaced by two ensigns with cups of coffee. The looks they had given her, as if seriously questioning her sanity, made her wish the ground would have just opened up and swallowed her whole there and then.

She couldn't recall falling asleep. Then again, watching the aurora of the FTL drive did not differ much from watching paint dry. There was no surprise she had nodded off. It didn't take long before her over-imaginative mind had proceeded to invent delirious nonsense about canal racing Saren in a macaroni ship on Tuchanka. It had taken an even shorter time for the dream to turn dark and insidious; the morbid images had crawled into her dreams like parasites. There truly was no respite.

Regardless of the hours that had passed since the injury occurred, Shepard's ankle still felt sore as she worked it into her boot, bandage and all. Her bio-suit was damaged beyond repair – a shame, given that it was an N7 commissioned garment. She tugged on the collar of its replacement, a standard model pinned at the neck with a Cerberus logo clasp. Shepard was loath to admit that even the cheapest of Cerberus garments held a luxury to them. The material was smooth against her skin, neither tugging uncomfortably, nor too loose. '_For once I find a reason to provide the bastards with a compliment.'_

The Commander steadied herself against the cold armoury table, taking one last moment to breathe a sigh of dread. The cup of coffee next to her hip had long since gone cold. She eyed it with apprehension, swatting the leftover drink further away. The cup slid across the table with an audible rasp. '_Lazy_,' she thought to herself, feeling a mild tinge of guilt at leaving her mess in someone else's space. '_I'll deal with it later; and Jacob.'_

There was no splendour in her trek to the bridge. Exposed wiring protruded from the ceiling, large, thick cables as wide as her arm littering the floors of the CIC. Most had simply come undone from the brackets that held them in place, but there were numerous lines that were severed brutally, the shielding jagged and torn. She spotted a piece of the outer hull lying on the ground, lodged against the side of the research lab. The Commander watched the shimmering motes of dust crackle as they hit the kinetic barrier; a simple field separated her and the vast space on the other side.

Fear rose up in her, shivers running down her spine. Shepard managed to pry her green eyes away, arms folding carefully behind her back. Her fingers clasped together, the picture of military discipline. She couldn't ignore the snide remarks her mind was throwing at her all throughout her walk along the bridge to the helm.

_Chicken_, the voices had concluded, harassing her until she stood behind her helmsman, EDI's cold, emotionless voice driving her own chills away.

"Some measure of finesse would be appreciated, Jeff. I don't appreciate being handled like a toy truck."

"Yes, mom. Quit worrying." Joker's arrogance brought a smirk to Shepard's lips. Hell, he had every right to each and every ego-stroking sentence that he lavished upon himself. He was a damn good pilot and he had demonstrated it time and time again. Their approach to Omega was something of little comparison given the more 'illustrious' moments of his career, despite their lack of one engine burner, damaged in the crash. While it served to skew the Normandy's balance considerably, the ship had no difficulty navigating the asteroid field blanketing Omega's outskirts under Joker's deft touch.

Regardless, Shepard found it interesting that the dynamics between pilot and AI had developed to such an extent. Symbiosis, she recalled EDI stating matter-of-factly. More so, the AI had taken to referring to the Normandy as Shepard would to her own body. It was most intriguing, admittedly, yet somehow disconcerting at the same time. The Geth served as a sound warning.

"On approach," Joker chattered. "All up to you from now, EDI."

The list of tasks to accomplish was being formulated in Shepard's mind as she watched the station loom ever closer in the viewscreen. Repairs were at the top of the list, yet virtually impossible until she secured some means of labour and a material supplier. There was no way the Normandy would be refitted completely while in dock on Omega. It wasn't that Shepard did not believe she could find the necessary materials – she had an amazing talent for getting her way with a little sound persuasion. She simply did not trust the delicacy required in bringing the Normandy to operational status to some two-faced contractor with a gang-banging load of screwballs garnered off the street. And that was putting it nicely, she realized.

She sorely regretted not being able to get to Ilium from the start, but with their current hull integrity, maintaining the FTL drive and the numerous mass effect fields to seal breaches would overload their core. Even now, with only the trip through the Omega 4 relay and the short distance to Omega itself, she estimated the discharge time* would require hours.

"EDI, keep me updated on how the Normandy fares once we dock," Shepard spoke at length, one finger stroking the bridge of her nose. She realized she had been lost in thought. They were already on approach for the hanger. "Also, inform Miranda and Mordin that they are to come ashore with me."

"Acknowledged. Logging you out, Shepard."

Omega hadn't changed. What a surprise.

It was the same, backwater filth that Shepard had come to know. Everything about it, from the foul odours, like rancid sewer refuse, to the chilling, violent atmosphere, reminded her of the first time she had disembarked upon the station. Voices filtered down the hall toward her; two batarians were arguing loudly with a turian. '_Barefaced,'_ Shepard remarked, noting the lack of paint marking the turian's plated features. Garrus's visage popped into mind, the elegant tracery of blues against the paler scales of his thick hide. The thought seemed inappropriate to dwell upon, Shepard construed. Garrus was nothing more than an associate and a good friend. She was positive he would not appreciate such nonsensical fantasies about the loveliness of his skin colour.

'_Wait what! No I meant, I –'_

Shepard groaned. Somehow, her mind had managed to turn an innocent thought into sexual speculation. "_Perverted," a quarian remarked to her friend. "I swear all humans are." _Perhaps there was some truth to the memory. She seemed to be able to integrate some lewd aspect into most of everything that drifted through her mind. For example, the fact that Miranda and Mordin were late.

She thanked every single deity she knew that they weren't there in that instant to remark on the look of sheer disgust that dominated her expression. Surely, _Mordin_ would not be so rash as to have anything to do with Miranda! '_You're overreacting again, Shepard.' _If screaming at oneself wasn't regarded as a sign of insanity, Shepard would most definitely be engaging in such a pastime. '_You're jumping to conclusions based on a ridiculous concept cooked up in your tired brain. Though Miranda can be quite the tease when it comes to men.'_

"Shepard, you look rather ill."

The Commander wheeled about, unaware of when the former Cerberus operative had arrived, nor how long she had been standing there. Thankfully, internal conflicts did not show up very well in her physical features. More gods were praised for the icy demeanour that military discipline allowed her to tap into. _'At this rate, I'm going to be religious before the day ends.'_

"Where's Mordin?" It had taken her distracted mind to register that the figure standing next to Miranda was not the salarian scientist, but the tall, imposing frame of Garrus Vakarian. Surely that glimmer in his eyes was not a sense of hurt, was it? The flood of guilt returned, like that stale coffee that she was sure was still on Jacob's desk. Garrus had been with her on every single mission since they had first joined forces against Saren. Not once had the turian been left behind; it had become tradition. A pair, inseparable, a force to be reckoned with. Shepard wasn't sure why she hadn't asked EDI to notify him.

No, she knew.

Since their talk, the thought of Garrus made Shepard uncomfortable. To think that someone cared for her, even minutely, brought emotional complications that she was unsure of how to handle. '_He's a friend_,' she had insisted to herself over and over on the pointless elevator ride up from her temporary quarters. '_There's nothing to worry about. Not like with Alenko.'_

Was she afraid of her emotions? Afraid of getting close to someone, only to have to lose them in this messed up galaxy they lived in? Her eyes darted to Garrus's own again, remarking the nonchalant shrug in his broad shoulders, the half-hearted turian equivalent of a smirk on his face. "Dr. Solus was indisposed. I do believe he partook in some celebrating with Dr. Chakwas and her bottle of brandy. If you would Commander, I will accompany you in his stead."

There was an inkling of disgust in his voice. Was he lying? No, turians did not lie. Such strong honour would prevent them from that. Lying by omission then, she was convinced, especially given that tone just now. For the sake of preventing an argument, she acquiesced to his unspoken demand.

"If you're done staring at one another," Miranda chose to gripe. "We're here to get a job done?"  
"In due time," Shepard grumbled.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

There was an acutely uncomfortable silence between the trio as they waited for the airlock to cycle open. The doors grunted and slid apart, and Shepard led her team aboard Omega.

"Where'd ya get that hunk'o'junk, Commander?" The turian who was stationed to guard the entrance to the station from this particular access point only jutted his sharp chin in the direction of the Normandy SR-2, visible through the grimy windows of the airlock. "Same place your mother found you," she interjected with a slight grin. The turian broke into barking laughter, much to Garrus' chagrin, who found the joke not particularly funny and far more of an insult.

Nevertheless, Shepard found herself glancing off in the direction the security officer had indicated with his all too pointed stare. From this particular vantage point, there was a distinct tear visible in the Normandy's hull, easily spanning two decks and tearing through the Combat Information Center. Faint electrical discharge shimmered across the barrier as flecks of dust bombarded the ship. For the next three hours or so, the Normandy would be discharging any built up electrical charge from running the drive core for such a long period of time. For the duration, the ship would have to be grounded to the station's electrical discharge system and passage to and from the Normandy would have to be restricted unless the procedure was paused. No doubt that on better days, Shepard would not toss an opportunity for a little pick-me-up at Afterlife's bar, but today of all days she felt antsy and in a rush.

Without further stalling, the guard motioned they were clear to go. There, in the halls, the atmosphere was muffled, the only sounds coming from the rattling of the life support systems, accompanied by a slight tremor in the floors that came from a rather unstable air conditioning pipe latched underneath the panels. Now that they had entered the station proper, a sudden low thrum of many voices filled the air, interspersed by a deep boom that could only be the bass tones of the heavy music coming from Afterlife. The line was as long as usual.

_And those Elcor as damned impassive as always,_ Shepard thought to herself, motioning for Garrus to come up alongside. He had yet to return to Omega since his hectic extraction. "You're trouble, you know," she chided.  
"Trouble?"  
"Don't play daft, you know what I mean." She had the urge to elbow him one in the gut, but it would have much the same effect as flicking a piece of sheet metal.

"In all honesty," the turian began, pausing when he noticed Miranda making exasperated noises behind them. "I doubt I will be all too recognizable. After all, none of them ever came close enough to see my face." Shepard shuddered when the turian's scarred face split into a wolfish grin, all too indicative of what he did to the mercs that dared come after him. Didn't change the fact that he would have been dead meat had she not arrived when she did, gunship and whatnot. While his face had recovered somewhat, bandages still covered the many portions of his face where the explosion had left his flesh raw and tender, no longer protected by the thick, turian plates.

"Yeah well, assuming they even consider your ugly mug worth staring at," Miranda sneered. She'd never been bestest of friends with the turian, but she had enough respect that they were cordial with a hint of friendly rivalry. At best,. Shepard knew Miranda resented that many leadership opportunities that fell to the turian rather than to herself, but both she and Miranda knew well enough that to Shepard, Garrus was far more trustworthy. "Ridiculous worries aside, I do believe we have an appointment to make."

"And we will," Shepard sighed, pushing past the line of waiting patrons queued for entrance to Afterlife.  
"What the fuck! She cut the line! Who the hell does she think she is? Da hell man, I've been waiting for hours!"  
"Inflammatory response: She thinks she is Commander Shepard. Condescending remark: It has been fifteen minutes," the elcor grunted.

Garrus couldn't help but stare at the swaying hips of the Asari strippers on the table in front of them, failing to note the mildly amused expression the two human women exchanged. The beat of the music made his insides shiver and churn, the lighting giving a sense of intimacy he felt almost uncomfortable with. He had never been one to frequent Afterlife. For that matter, he had only once before come to the club, and that was for a victory drink with his squad mates back before... well, before they were betrayed. Since then, he hadn't had much appetite for merry-making, though he found other ways to drink himself silly. He felt an impatient shove on his shoulder and noticed Miranda was about a second away from stomping onto his foot with those deadly, heeled shoes.

"Can you believe him?" the operative teased.  
"What did I do now?" he shot back in a far too defensive tone, having to yell to be heard above the loud music. Great, he sounded guilty already.  
"_Asari _ass? What is it with this whole galaxy and their fascination for blue booty?"  
"W-Well, I- ...I don't know! It's just um... you see... I uh..." He couldn't see Shepard's face, but he was rather sure her shaking shoulders could only mean she was laughing at him, especially after such a stuttered, idiotic comment.  
"You see," Miranda pouted at the Commander. "Asari ass is apparently much better that anything I have to offer." Her hand slapped her rear audibly in his direction, those flirty eyes pinning him with far too heated a glance.

"Down girl," Shepard teased. While she was well within her rights to give Miranda a fairly hefty talking to for such ludicrous behaviour, she tersely reminded herself the operative had no regard for military law. Be it as it may, while the Commander saw fit to run the vessel as a military cruiser, her staff followed protocol only to appease her, not so much for any sort of forthcoming disciplinary action that would potentially arise. More so, Miranda knew that she had more boundary-pushing leeway than most, but could get the job done when necessary. Perhaps that's why Shepard would often let her have her little jokes, inappropriate as they were. Not to mention, judging from the turian's state of emotion at the moment, he was probably wishing Shepard **would** interfere.

Garrus' mandibles flared as far as they could possibly go, dying of such embarrassment he could hardly recall the last time he had felt such a preposterous volume of shame. "Tag team, no fair."

"Never said anything," Shepard finally spoke from up ahead. Her tone struck him as out of place. Was she... miffed? He couldn't quite tell what that meaning it carried was, but neither did he have much chance to press upon it, for they had finally worked their way through the crowd to the back of the club where the sloping ramps lead to the second level.

And Aria.

**...**

"Hold on a sec!" Shepard's stomach nearly flipped upside-down when the queasy looking batarian bodyguard Aria T'loak had hired shoved his way into her face. Not only did he look like shit, he quite frankly smelt like it too. Absolutely rancid. Meaning to push past him regardless - he'd let her pass countless times before - Shepard was surprised to see his hand coming up to grab her by the collar. Unfortunately, before she had a chance to make a diplomatic statement and be on her way, Garrus had already taken hold of the batarian's wrist and had wrested it away.

"Watch who you touch," that flanging voice spat. His grip must have been strong enough, for the guard showed obvious signs of discomfort and his turian pal was already rushing from across the platform, weapon drawn and ready.

"Call off your dog! Now!" The batarian only squealed. It wasn't long before three more goons brandished weapons all trained at Garrus' sloping forehead.  
"Enough, Garrus! Let him go!" Her hand batted the turian's arm away. The Officer paused, halting to feel the pressure of Shepard's hand pressing down on his arm dissipate before Garrus more so threw the batarian away from him.  
"Look, I don't want trouble," Shepard pleaded.  
"You've earned it already," the bodyguard hissed, his opposite hand rubbing weakly at the precise spot where Garrus' iron grip had twisted his arm. They looked all too ready to open fire before a familiar authority decided to interject.

"I swear I hired morons." Aria's triumphant, relaxed posture grated just slightly on Shepard's already fraying nerves. There was a reason she was set on leaving Garrus behind on the ship; he'd cause less trouble there. Not to mention, her blood pressure would probably remain on a more stable level than she was currently at. Frankly, she was surprised how the hell she hadn't been fired upon yet, what with Garrus' paper thin temper and Miranda's idiosyncratic flirtatiousness. "Look you dipshits," the self-styled 'Pirate Queen of Omega' continued to berate. "Next time you feel like starting drama all over the fucking place, check to see who the hell you start it with. You'd swear all those eyes in your fucking skull were pointless pieces of paper plastered on, for all the use you give them. Shepard, come." The last bit was pointedly aimed not at the Commander, but the batarian bodyguard who had clearly failed to recognize the the approaching guest.

Shepard couldn't help but feel slightly smug, and from the corner of her eyes noted the same sentiment was reflected in Garrus' stiff, threatening posture. She'd never quite noticed how tall and imposing this particular turian was compared to the rest. She'd never really seen much need in comparing Garrus to most other turians, for that matter, but it was a small observation that struck her as she watched him brush aside his fellow aliens. The thought nagged at her just slightly, for it wasn't an observation she had ever thought to make. Granted, since her assignment to the Council Spectres, Shepard had often been forced to work with turians and human alike. Scratch that; she'd only ever worked with Garrus on a close basis. All the other turians had been random decoration in day to day activities that blended just about as well into the background as a potted fern did. Prior to that, she had seen turians and salarians and asari, you name it, in just about every single briefing holo-vid, but never quite face to face. Be it as it may, humans were still widely regarded as the spoiled brat of the universe with one too many bully tendencies. The other species accepted them, but only to such an extent, enough that most had steered clear of her in her career.

The exchange with the infamous Aria T'loak began as could be expected. Shepard took her seat on the stiff, patent leather couch, exchanged a cordial nod and silently, watched as Miranda shifted her body to place herself in the most visually appealing display of hanging cleavage. Garrus, seated across from them found himself looking at anything but the Cerberus operative, namely, Shepard. He watched the planes of her face shift as she explained the need for labour, her brows furrowing as Aria's almost negative reply returned. He couldn't quite understand what the purpose of that feathery material hanging from human scalps was good for, aside from an annoyance. He found himself watching as the Commander brushed the strands away from her face and behind an ear, only for it to fall back again. He'd seen her once before with a pair of shears, hastily clipping at it, tufts of burnished red all around her. 'Hair', the humans called it.

"I need labour," Shepard was saying. Briefly, her eyes flicked in Garrus' direction, catching his own in an inquisitorial sort of glance. He was quick to avert his own gaze, lest she realize he had been staring the entire time. Humans were touchy about prolonged eye contact, more so than turians, wherein eye contact was considered sincere respect. Or a challenge.  
"Work crews will be expensive," the kingpin mussed. "No good, honest labour will be swarming to Omega anytime soon. Cheap, fast or quality work: at most, expect to pick only two out of three."  
Shepard scoffed, placing her slender chin into her palm. "Yes, well, I had a feeling that would be the case."

"Don't get me started on materials," Aria replied, her devilish smirk giving the asari a most calculating look. "I assume you have the funds to toss about however, given your new, eh... loyalties?" A sharp nail indicated the black and orange suit, borrowed from Miranda's wardrobe, though quite pointedly zipped to its full extent. The Commander saw little reason to have her ta-ta's bouncing about. It was far more of a security concern, though Miranda sure didn't mind. She was paying far more attention to toying with whatever guard was foolish enough to give her their attention, though somehow, Shepard had a feeling she hadn't missed a single part of the conversation.

"I borrowed it," Shepard grumbled. "Let's just say my own wardrobe had a little run-in with several armaments."  
"And here I thought you were finally looking for a man to warm your bed," Aria spoke through a smirk, watching as Shepard scoffed and waved her hand in an attempt to have the conversation dropped.

"So tell me, Shepard..." The Commander could only tilt an eyebrow, watching as Aria spread her arms over the back of the couch and spread her legs into a relaxed, almost masculine portrayal. "Your turian friend... Archangel, I suppose?" There was little chance for Shepard to say otherwise, for Garrus flinched most visibly at the mention of his old moniker. Aria grinned from ear to ear. "You're a wanted man, I must say. Not that I envy you. Fuck your life if they ever catch up to you."

"We're done," Shepard interrupted. This was a train she wanted to stop before it had a chance to leave the platform. Whatever direction this conversation could head it, it only screamed bad, bad and absolutely bad. There was no denying Aria was fit to sell her information to the highest bidder should she so wish.

"Now now, don't ruin my fun. But whatever; you have business, I have business. It's life."  
"Yeah, well, thanks for the insight."  
The kingpin snickered. "You amuse me, Shepard."  
"Maybe I will talk to you some other time then."  
"And maybe I will be here," that phrased drifted after her turned back.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'm am so sorry, to all my readers, that this had taken so long. It reached a point where this train ended up in a station and just couldn't roll back out again, but I have somehow worked up the motivation and I sincerely hope that by the end of Novemeber, this story will be finished.

So stay tuned, review and let me know what you think and I hope this turns out well.  
Oh yes, Garrus has a thing for asari booties. Is Shep gonna take that? :3


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"Sorry Commander, no can do," the comm feed chirped with Joker's voice, all three Normandy crewmembers listening in on their personal omni-tool feed. The timing of Garrus' was a little skewed compared to the rest, but that was merely because his VI was working to translate everything into turian. As such, his groan of dismay came a little later when Joker proceeded to announce, "We started discharge a little late. With the ship as it is, there was a problem with the discharge couplings. Estimated time of completion is 1500 hours, local time." Be it as it may, the C-Sec Officer had never learnt to speak any of the human tongues, and was about as proficient without his translator as Shepard was in turian. Which, mind you, consisted of three phrases: "Hello", "Thank you" and the standard, "Screw you", the latter being the very first phrase she had ever picked up. Naturally, learning other languages consisted of learning the insults first.

"What the hell am I supposed to do for two hours?" If Miranda's pout had been any larger, Shepard would have suspected she had just been whipped across the mouth with a wooden plank.  
"Whore yourself out?" the turian offered.  
"Enough, Garrus." Shepard's head rested in one palm, propped up by an elbow against the metal tabletop, so that her relatively gaunt cheek was smooshed forward, giving her a lopsided chubby look. "And for goodness' sake, no whoring," she was quick to add, noting that Miranda had been surprisingly tickled pink by the idea.

Miranda's chair scraped back, and Shepard braced her hands against the table to follow suit.  
"We might a well make the best of this then," it was Miranda who suggested.  
"Agreed," the Commander seconded. "The sooner we can find labour and materials, the sooner we can be off on our way to Illium for the final repairs."  
"Commander?"  
"Yes?"  
"I have several Cerberus contacts on Omega I need to catch up with. If I can enlist their help, perhaps we can have several parts shipped in for a fairly low cut. It would save a lot more than platying the markets."  
"And by 'catch up', you mean...?" Shepard trailed off, glad to see Miranda took the hint and continued.  
"By that I mean I would like to go and see them alone." She had a remarkably stern expression, as if this was set in stone.

While Shepard could have objected - and she wanted to - she realized Miranda would no doubt argue her case until she was forced to retract her objections. In the interest of productivity, she sighed and with far more disapproval than she meant to show, nodded her acquiescence. "Very well. Make sure to contact me if you run into any trouble. We can rendezvous at the Normandy within two hours, proving all goes well."

"Understood," Miranda spoke in all seriousness. "And objection noted, Commander. But do understand that I'm a big girl. I can take of myself," she cooed in a sugary tone. Shepard only scoffed as the busty woman disappeared into the Afterlife crowds, almost itching to call out a profane rebuttal to what she had said..

"So what do _we_ do?" Garrus asked, toying with his glass of liquor. He had taken only a single sip and had merely played with the glass for the rest of their on/off conversation with the Normandy and themselves while they waited for Joker's reply. For some reason, it had taken the comm signal some time to patch through. Curious, as the communications array had never been damaged in the attack, unless something was jamming the signals. No doubt, the interference from the discharge process coupled with the relatively low output of damaged sub-sytems was the culprit. EDI would be sure to investigate, assuming she had noticed the throughput problem. Hardly anything escaped her notice ever since Joker had plugged her into the main ship systems.

"There is a group of salarians that owe me a favour," Shepard noted, pointing a finger at the turian seated across the table from where she stood. "And before you think to object, you're coming with me." The last thing she needed was for someone to recognize the turian and end up placing a scrap mill's worth of shrapnel into his back.

"Figured as much," he grunted, heaving himself up. "Lead the way, oh fearless, Commander. Someone has to watch your back."  
"Yeah, cut the crap will you?"  
"What did I do this time?"  
"You know what I mean."  
"Do **not**!"

Despite the fact they had taken no more than several steps toward the exit, Shepard rounded on her heel to face the turian, who stopped just short enough of slamming into her that he towered precariously off-balance above the smaller human. She had to crane her head back uncomfortably, maintaining her best militaristic, stern expression. Despite the fact Shepard was taller than average for a human woman, even a turian teenager could best her in height. "Ever since the whole fiasco on the Collector base... you've been-"

"Not now," he interrupted far more harshly then he had intended to. There was a glimmer of some emotion in his eyes that Shepard took to be some sort of worry or sadness and Garrus only sighed.

"Alright," she acknowledged with a nod, entirely unaware just how much she had wrenched the turian's insides just now. She figured he was just in a shitty mood from being brushed off for Mordin earlier that day. Though Garrus felt as if his bowels had been clenched in a fist and dumped upside down. For a split moment, he saw the terrible news story recounting the death of "the late Commander Shepard". The reporter had gone on for several minutes, explaining the terrible tragedy while the stunned turian had sat upon his seat, hot drink entirely upended onto the floors and into his lap, entirely unaware it had been joined by a tray of breakfast food; a cold, chopped fish dish and some sticky greens that looked much like boiled spinach. He simply hadn't been able to accept the news, no matter how many channels he had flipped through thinking it was all a mistake or a hoax, though each displayedmuch the same recounting of Shepard's death.

He'd flown into a rage then, unaware of what to do with himself. For the first time in a long time, he had found himself whining softly in a turian expression of sadness. A soft, low keening that only grew in intensity when the reality of it all sunk in, Garrus falling to his knees and pounding his hands into the floor. She had promised to visit him sometime that month. She couldn't be dead. Shepard had never broken a promise!

The very next day he had shown up to work perfectly proper and in control, his co-workers unaware of the suffering he was undergoing. Only the holo-image of him posing with the Commander had disappeared off his desk, turned off and stuffed somewhere into a drawer to be forgotten, lest it bring the pain back up.

"- ...Garrus?" The turian snapped back into reality, quite surprised to find he had spaced out for a moment there. "You coming?"

"Yeah," he grunted, nodding his head. He took after her, but quite half lost in his own little world as he tailed Shepard through the doors exiting Omega. He didn't know what these salarian contacts she talked about were, but he trusted in her to run this little show, leaving it onto himself to make sure she was protected under his watch.

**...**

"We would if we could," the nervous salarians exchanged a glance and nodded sporadically. "You see, we are..."  
"-very busy. Very, very busy," the second salarian continued. They were seated at their dining table, Shepard sitting opposite. Garrus had taken a post off to one side, leaning casually against the wall to watch the discourse. It was mostly Shepard who unnerved the salarians, but there was no mistaking the fact that their eyes would often glance off to one side to take the image of the turian in and make sure he was not about to come and snap their necks or whatever such else they envisioned.

"Busy? With what?"

They gave Shepard a slight sheepish glance before one of the salarian twins stood from the table and went to fetch a datapad of information from a nearby docking station. "The current market in Omega is not favourable," he told her. "As we can see from this information I have collected-"

"Collected?" Shepard interrupted dubiously. There was a severe scowl forming on her face, and a sudden sense of danger gripped her movements and her tone. She noted Garrus had unlatched his sidearm from its holster and had a talon slipping closer to the trigger, ready to fire at a moment's notice. "I've only just contacted you for this discussion. You don't even know what I have to ask. How could you possibly know what I would require or need?"

"Aria - _Your ship_ - gave us - _came in battered_ - the information - _and we saw it_-" Even as both salarians were talking over one another, each contradicting each word that came out of the previous brother's mouth, they moved back, further and further away from the door. They were practically shouting now, almost huddled up against the kitchen counter on the opposite side of the room. She saw them glancing nervously at the entrance way, whether to make a run for it, Shepard had no clue. Garrus' sidearm was in his hand and even Shepard began to get a sense of impending doom.

She hardly had a chance to linger on it. It was the salarians who warned her to what was about to happen next, for one of them screamed even before the heavy blast hit her back and forced her gut into the table. Amid the falling debris and dust and the clamour of ringing bullets, Shepard managed to orient herself enough to roll over the table, body falling sharply against the edge of the seat on the other side. Garrus had opened fire on something barely visible through the smoke, the rapid fire giving enough cover for her to flip onto her butt and kick the table over for a limited, flimsy sense of cover. She knelt behind it, fumbling her assault rifle into her hands.

"Get in there," a gruff, unfamiliar voice preceded the rapid gunfire that came in return to Garrus' own.

"Blue Suns!" Garrus pierced the air with a shout. His luma-gel targetting display had probably picked up an image of the enemy. His next bullet caused the first merc who came through the door to lose his kinetic shield and take a fatal shot to the forehead from the next round. The upheaval left Shepard in a daze, but she managed to thrust herself upward just enough to clear the top of the table and fire upon the next mercenary in line, the high velocity rounds punching through his kinetic barrier and ablative armour alike. Blue, turian blood sprayed in all directions, mingling with the reddish hue of the human dying just before. Several shots returning fire tore through the doorway, piercing the thin metal of the table behind her as Shepard twisted her body and ducked back down. A sharp pain burned in her shoulder, the suit indicator blinking to indicate the kinetic barrier had taken the force, but energy to the shield temporarily had fallen below fifty percent. One more shot like that and the shield would go down for the cooldown period and she'd be taking those bullets with her ass.

"Shepard!" Garrus screamed.  
"Here," she replied amidst more shots. One must have found the hiding salarians, for there was a scream and she watched his slim, unarmored body crumple to the floor, his twin pleading for him to hang in there.

"Can you duck in to the side?" Garrus had asked again. He probably had some plan in mind, but even before Shepard could assess the situation she heard the familiar clinking of a thrown projectile. It skittered along the cement floors, bouncing against a chair leg before the flash bang went off in a display of blinding white light and high pitched noise that drilled into her head like a thousand migraines.

Blind and defenseless, her ears ringing and heartbeat pounding within her skull as if it was a drum, Shepard fumbled her body to the floor, strangely aware of the bullets zinging above her head. She could feel the floor shake as if many booted feet were running through the doorway in her direction. Disoriented still, she could feel hands grabbing at her shoulders, forcing her upward and off her knees. The Commander managed to wrestle an arm back, elbow smashing into the nose of the assailant on her right, tears streaming from her eyes from the pain of the bright light. There was a yelp and a faint trace of an image came back to her, smeared and muddied in bright yellow aftervisions. The merc she had just elbowed was holding his bloodied nose and being shoved aside by a comrade to grab her arm yet again. She could see Garrus in much the same predicament, pinned to the floor with a booted foot pressed up against his cowl, keeping his face into the cement. He grunted something and attempted to flip himself over, only to be kicked roughly enough times until his body went still and limp.

There was wailing and snivelling that came to her now, no doubt the salarian mourning his brother, and also the loud, painful shouts of the mercenaries who held her. It felt as if their every word was shouted directly into her ears, forcing their words at her. Sluggishly, she turned her head, struggling briefly against the grip that held her from behind, wresting her arms up and back at the shoulders. The painful hold had her at a disadvantage of dislocating an arm, and she was forced to stop even before the mercenaries decided she was better off completely still.

The last she saw was the incoming butt of a rifle before her vision went black.

* * *

**A/N: **Yet another chapter. For those of you following the original, I am going to be removing it, so hopefully you've updated your links.

Please rate and review though! I would love to hear what everyone thinks of it so far. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Hrrrghhh. Take all there is. We sell, make profit, ghhrnn." The turian's head was splitting, his vision clouded and bleak. Garrus was at a slight loss for what had transpired, only the fact that he could see his hand in front of him, his body quite awkwardly laid out on his stomach. _An ambush,_ he recalled. Feet fumbled and scratched at the floor ahead, clawed hands sifting through the piles of upturned items and broken pieces.

"Him too," another gruff voice, wet and guttural pointed out. Vorcha, Garrus realized, more and more of his aches and pains beginning to register. One of his mandibles was practically glued to his face by something sticky and crusted, and his targeting display lay in pieces next to his face. He wiggled his fingers, glad to see his hand moving in front of him, realizing all too late he probably didn't want to attract attention to himself.

"Did you see, hrrmnn... -that?" There was a sound of gnashing teeth and strange, sucking noises, like that of trying to suck in the dribbling snot of a runny nose.  
"What?" A second vorcha snapped. No doubt the scavengers hadn't been here long if they hadn't had a chance to grab the clothes off his back yet. From the sound of it, they were attempting to grab whatever they could before authorities had a chance to show up. The turian managed to shift his head just slightly, catching a glimpse of three vorcha males huddled apprehensively around a pile of items they deemed worthy enough to make a profit off of. They'd probably kill each other off for it by the end of the day.

"Movement. The turian!" the first one spat; literally. Flecks of spittle flew onto his companion's shoulder, a third male that had not had much to say. From his stature he was the largest of the lot, even though he was hunched over, and most likely their leader. He merely hissed in return, hastily wiping the phlegm off his skin with a scrap of cloth, those nasty, pointed teeth drooling with enough of his own saliva.  
"Haargh, then check him, lazy oaf!" He spoke. "Go! No more time wasting!"

His two subordinates looked back and forth from one to the other, hissing and leering until one lashed out. The second flinched but failed to retaliate, realizing it was now his duty to go and find out if Garrus was still a half walked, half crawled on three limbs over to the turian, Garrus quickly shutting his eyes and laying still. He could hear the vorcha snuffling, his snub nose getting closer and closer to his face. Bits of drool and mucus smeared across his arm and the vorcha practically bristled.

"Hraggh! It's al- GHERGH" In that moment, Garrus had twisted on his back, his hand clenching around the scavenger's slender neck. He had no weapon on hand, but through the vorcha's flailing arms, had managed to grab a shard of glass from a broken mirror and plunge the makeshift knife deep into the creature's eye socket, twisting the shard. Pained, the vorcha twisted and turned, managing to break the turian's grip on his neck, relentlessly scratching at the turian with whatever limb he could manage. His hands found purchase on one of Garrus' mandibles, attempting to scrabble at the piece no matter how hard the turian pressed it shut.

"Get him!" he screamed to his incoming pals, blooding oozing from his eye socket, smeared by his hand across Garrus' chest. The vermin had a naturally high pain tolerance. Having his eyes nearly gouged out had hardly cause more than a bitter, twisted growl. A second vorcha had spotted Garrus' discarded handgun, dropped from his hand in the earlier firefight. He lunged, scrabbling to make for it in time. Catching his gaze, Garrus reached out, hand falling just short enough of the weapon no matter how he reached; the first vorcha's grip had his neck twisted in such a way that it would be more than painful to go any further. He lunged yet again, the butt of the gun falling under his talons, knocking the weapon away from him, but also the incoming assailant. _No, no!_ he thought, bringing his legs back and under. With a jerk of his hips, Garrus managed to plant a leg against the vorcha's chest, sending the first perpetrator flying overhead and into the wall behind him. His body landed hard, forcing the vorcha's neck into an awkward position. The turian had a doubt however that it would somehow be too good to hope the damn thing's neck had snapped.

It wasn't for long, for the scavenger was back up and rushing to him, but enough to give Garrus enough time to flip over twice, his arm smacking the second creature across the face. It stunned him enough that he wrenched the weapon from his loose hold, bearing it around in a large circle. With his body flat on his back, the turian braced himself against his shoulder blades, finger squeezing the trigger.

One shot. The first vorcha keeled backward, a spray of blood escaping from his loosely hinged jaw, half mutilated by the closeness of the blast. He was quite dead, falling at the feet of their leader, who had finally seen fit to come rushing in. The second scavenger, recovered from the smack was lunging toward his arm.

Two. A second bullet found a mark in his chest, the turian propelling himself to his feet at the same time that the leader lunged forward, past the falling body of his comrade. His bulk smashed into Garrus' chest, sending him off balance and flying into the wall. "Filthy turian!" The vorcha screamed, brandishing his close dangerously close to Garrus' face.

"Wrong," the cold response came. Three. Eyes wide in disbelief, the vorcha took a casual step back, surveying the bleeding wound in his abdomen with disbelief and a sense of impending death. Garrus' arm, bent in close against his side had managed to place the handgun against the creature's stomach.  
"Bastar-grh..." Four. Five. Six.

Even after the weapon had stopped firing, cartridge ejected from the build-up of heat, Garrus continued to fire, hearing the familiar empty click associated with a of lack of ammunition. He was breathing heavily, staring at the bodies in shock as the adrenaline began to drain from his system, chest heaving with every breath. Shepard was gone, he realized, his senses returning to him and a new fear gripped him, stronger than the pain in his jaw or his pounding headache. Tentatively, he reached up to the side of his face, feeling the wetness of both old and fresh blood. Some was his, for the blue, syrupy liquid clung to his talons, mixed in with the thin, orange-red droplets of vorcha blood.

He wiped his hand against his thigh, convinced enough that he wouldn't bleed to death, walking over the bodies to check the room. There was no trace of either Shepard, nor the two dead mercenaries from before, but enough blood smears to indicate the bodies had been dragged from the doorway. One trail was blue, but the second was far too brown to be human blood; batarian. So she was still alive then, if everything fell into his favour.

**...  
**

**1 HOUR BEFORE -**

For vanity's sake, Miranda took an extra moment at the threshold to the small, surprisingly posh and overpriced restaurant aboard Omega. A five-star establishment that had no qualms about the surrounding squalor and rather delighted in the lack of trade, poaching and import restriction. Even crime lords had to have access to such a fine gem of quality dining and catering; not like their money was worth any less than all the rest of the galaxy who earned it legitimately.

There was a full-length mirror here and she carefully adjusted her own 'establishments' and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear, smacking her lips and batting her eyelashes at her own reflection. A rather silly female custom she somehow always found herself doing, as if her sexual charms were any more useful in swaying the conversation her way. Mind you it generally did when talking to men, but her colleague was female and similarly attractive to the point that there was a sense of loathing between the two. Perhaps then the preening ritual was merely a way to gain a leg up on one another.

With a smug look, Miranda finally entered the restaurant, _Ambertrine_, greeted by the warm, cozy environment. Orange lamps provided dim lighting, glinting off the backs of the leather, mahogany seats. Antique, starched tablecloths draped to the floors, each table sporting an arrangement of faintly luminescent asari flowers found only on their homeworld of Thessia. Each pod-like structure thrummed with a blue glow, casting a complementary hue against the center of the tables. There were several patrons seated already, mostly fancily-dressed turians and a human or two sitting with some asari escort. A krogan was also crammed into a seat off to one side, happily licking his lips at an incoming plate of steaming, boiled fish with mountains of peeled shrimp and a shredded radish garnish. Admittedly, it looked quite delicious, though far too massive of a portion for Miranda's taste.

A posh looking batarian in a tux was striding toward her, clutching a datapad in his arms, nose quite pointedly raised into the air as if to exude self-importance. She couldn't quite take anything with crap for a face as serious, no matter how noble he attempted to be. "Madam," he gruffed. "How may I help you?"  
"I have a reservation for Lawson?"  
A few taps on the datapad followed a terse, "One moment, please," and with a nod that indicated he found what he was looking for, stretched his free arm out to welcome her in. "Right this way. Your friend is already seated."

He worked his way through several tables to a more secluded corner of the restaurant where a small fountain gurgled with a thick, syrupy liquid that flowed in tiered, orange waves. It was settled on a low coffee-style table placed between three sizable armchairs flanked by two trays of assorted cream puffs, delectably tiny jars of raspberry and lemon confiture, several sorts of sliced fruit and an array of chocolate dipped, coconut macaroons. There was a woman already sitting in one of the armchairs, her hands neatly folded in her lap and one leg crossed over the other. Her beige and black dress was form fitting but resembling a one-piece variant of a blouse and pencil skirt. It fell to the knee, the high neck pushing up against the underside of her chin. Unfortunately, her attempt at formal dress was thwarted by the keyhole style cutout against her chest, visibly displaying her cleavage. She was still wearing her lab coat, so Miranda figured she had only just left her pharmaceutical business Cerberus used as a cover-up for operations on Omega.

"Miranda," she smiled sweetly, flipping a lock of platinum blonde hair out of her piercing green eyes. Like the Illusive Man, she had ocular implants to correct her vision, the shimmering glow rather bright in the dim lighting, though for some odd reason, she preferred to sport a pair of eyeglasses on her nose. The lenses bore no prescription whatsoever, merely there for vanity.

"It's been a while, Vala," Miranda greeted somewhat frostily. The batarian host interrupted briefly to ask if either of them would like to partake in a meal or preferred something to drink. Both women respectfully declined, but Vala paused to ask him for a cup of sweetened black coffee. Almost as an afterthought, Miranda added, "me too."

The Cerberus scientist across from her cocked an a finely-groomed eyebrow in reply. "I thought you hated coffee, Miranda. At least, that's what you told me back during training." She smirked, leaning herself back into the seat enough to fix the alignment of her shirt. At one point in time, both she and Vala had been very good friends. The two women had done the training together, sharing almost every project until the announcement of Project Lazarus. An inevitable split happened there and she and Vala had never again seen eye to eye.

Professor Vala Thoresen was a highly decorated member of Cerberus. much along the same ranks as Miranda. So much so that the Illusive Man had chosen her to specially head the pharmaceuticals division aboard Omega containing a staff of more than 100 Cerberus operatives acting as medical doctors and researchers. While Transcor Pharmaceuticals did indeed specialize in the production of commercially marketed medications for humans and asari, there was no denying the darker side of the business' true purpose; fabrication and production of numerous biological compounds and lethal organic chemicals. The most dangerous and prominent in production was a nerve gas, Tetrachlorozine, which if condensed into a liquid acted as a dangerous neurotoxin capable of incapacitating even a krogan. The company would have fared equally well with Illium's relaxed trade laws and indentured slave labour, but Vorcha were a popular test subject, and given the number and density among Omega's lower districts, no one quite noted the fact that hundreds would disappear at a time. There was also the added possibility that whatever authorities Aria had, they were turning a blind eye to the fact. No one cared what happened to the filthy vermin.

The batarian had returned with the coffee, each delicate cup balanced on a saucer. He placed one in front of Miranda, handing Vala's set over into her thin, slender hands. They kept silent while he shuffled a small vessel of cream among the desserts and continued to do so until he was well out of earshot. "You haven't even touched yours," the professor pointed out, taking another sip. She had deposited a macaroon drizzled with some of the fountain's orange-spiced, cinnamon honey onto her saucer, and was carefully nibbling at it in between bites, much to Miranda's distaste, who regretted taking her large sip from the cup. _Always so cute,_ Miranda leered, popping an entire cream puff into her mouth to drive the bitter taste of coffee away. She'd been baited into that; Vala had always played these ridiculous mind games so well.

"Either way, I assume you didn't call me up to upstage me over dessert," Vala noted.  
"Definitely not. I need a favour." Miranda wanted to slap her senseless when she started snickering over another bite of macaroon. Instead, she picked up the cream and deposited a heavy amount into her cup.  
"Favours? What makes you think I would give you any favours after you sabotaged my shot at Project Lazarus?"  
"Please, Vala," Miranda cooed in a derogatory sort of tone, the sound of her spoon hitting the edges of her cup clanging away. "Don't blame the fact you didn't get picked over me. Your area of expertise would have been far more useful where it was: making chemicals. Since when have you been a leading expert in biomedical implants?"

Keen to avoid a scene, it was the Professor who stepped down, leaning further back into her seat in utter disinterest. Miranda was welcome to act like a little child all she wanted. There was no way Vala would stoop down her level. "Doesn't matter," the Professor indicated tersely. "Tell me what you want."

"A cargo spot on your next shipment."  
"Cargo room? Now tell me, Miranda, what for?"  
"Doesn't matter."  
"It does to me." Judging from the fact the Professor had sat back up, back stiff as a board, she was clearly more than interested in the matter.  
"Starship parts," the operative relented.  
"Hah!" Vala scoffed, setting her saucer and cup onto the coffee table gingerly. She picked up the white napkin and dabbed at her lips with it, taking a moment to consider the request. "No." She spoke at length. "No, no. Absolutely not. That would be half my shipment."  
"It doesn't matter. I'm willing to make it up to you."  
"How?" There was a curious glimmer in her eyes. After all, what could Miranda Lawson possibly offer her.  
"Your chemical, the Tetrachlorozine? I have proof that it can be counteracted."  
"Can't be!" She hissed. "There is no method of removing it from the system once it had been inserted."  
"Are you willing to bank on that?" Judging from the way her brows furrowed and her small nose wrinkled up, no, she was not.

**...**

Comm static buzzed on his line no matter how many frequencies and channels Garrus had his omni-tool cycle through. The Normandy had either been cut off or something was wrong with his equipment, perhaps damaged in the firefight. There was no possible way for him to contact either Miranda or the crew about Shepard's abduction. He had no idea how long it had been since she had gone missing. Anywhere from ten minutes up to an hour since her disappearance. Honestly, he could have been out cold on the floor for days, for all he could trust the readings on his omni-tool at the moment.

The turian had sifted through the crime scene for clues, much like the old days as a C-Sec officer on the Citadel. There was little to nothing that he could find and his wounds made it hard to move about. His head throbbed and the room was nearly spinning, giving his stomach a serious sense of upheaval. Scattered around him were several dozen slivers of ammunition, blood stains here and there and, of course, the unlucky vorcha who had decided Garrus would be better off dead, without giving much consideration to the fact that it could be the other way around. They'd made a sure mess of the place. Everything that hadn't been upturned in the ambush had definitely been rooted through and whatever information or residue that might have dropped from the Blue Suns mercenaries was lost.

**And **his luma-gel eyepiece was broken beyond belief! He had the smashed eyepiece dangling from his hand, the expensive display strip snapped in half. Hopefully, there was something he could salvage from it, for he certainly didn't have the credits to replace it entirely. _You idiot!_ he berated himself. _Shepard is gone and here you are griping over a piece of equipment._

There was no more sense in staying here, more so if there was a chance that security could show up at any second. Skirting the dead bodies, he ducked through the doorway, observing the burn marks from the charges used to break down the locked, titanium plate doors. The salarians had taken their security to heart, though obviously not enough. Not many people prepared against mercenary ambush every moment of the day, but the fact that they had gone even to this much trouble proved there was something fishy about the situation to begin with. He recalled Shepard mentioning she had assisted two salarians involved in certain matters that could get their ass in the fire some weeks ago, before the attack on the Collector base had ever taken place. If these two were the very same salarians, Shepard should have never attempted to contact them a second time. She was too trusting, he reasoned, more upset with himself at his inability to protect her.

Battered from the encounter, Garrus stumbled his way into the corridor, greeted with screams from a young human female dashing through. He didn't realize the frightening sight he was, smeared in his own blood and that of the vorcha he had just turned into pasta strainers. His scarred face, one mandible practically hanging slack-jawed from his cheek, throbbing from the pain, gave him a crazed expression, his body half hunched and dragging himself toward the ship docks.

Through some sheer stroke of luck, he managed to avoid security the entire way. His luck ran out at the catwalk to the Normandy airlock. "Hold on a sec there mate!" The turian security guard from earlier exclaimed. "Where do you think you're going?"  
"The ship," Garrus snapped, his words rather slurred. "I'm part of the Normandy crew."  
"Oh yeah? Wanna tell me what trouble you went and dug up there, Liberace?"  
Telling the truth would have been stupid, Garrus reasoned, his mind quickly working up some sort of white lie to go along with his. Outright lie, more like, given the unbelievable bullshit that came out of his mouth next. "Bar fight," he grunted.  
The guard laughed outright, but nevertheless seemed to buy it. _I guess I look that damn terrible,_ Garrus thought._**And **__drunk._

He was glad to see the familiar interior of the Normandy. Garrus picked up pace without even realizing it, practically jogging down the halls, impatiently pacing in the airlock while the locks cycled shut behind him. He emerged on the Command deck, greeted by horrified looks from the crew sitting in the immediate vicinity.

"Get the doctor!" Michael, a tactical logistics office serving under Joker began to shout. He was the first up, despite his dislike for turians, grabbing Garrus' arm to support his weight and give him a bit of a break.  
"Garrus?" It was Joker, alerted by the shouts, who came hobbling as fast as he could toward him. "What the hell happened? Why didn't you contact us?"  
"Communications are down," the turian gasped, resting a taloned hand on Michael's shoulder for support. "Couldn't."  
"No, they're not." Joker was visibly perturbed by the prospect, given he had not noted the malfunction Garrus spoke of.  
"Mr. Moreau is correct, Officer Vakarian." It was the monotonous speech of EDI's voice that offered that particular sentiment. "My sensors are showing that all communications systems are online and have not suffered any downtime within the last 45 hours, 29 minutes, 51 seconds."  
"I couldn't contact anyone," Garrus sighed. "Is Miranda back?"  
"Yea," Joker replied, his confusion evident. "Garrus, where's Shepard?"  
"Gone," he stated, swallowing uncomfortably. "Mercs took her."

* * *

**A/N: **First of all, thank you very much to everyone who reviewed and the rest of you lurkers who have favourited the story and have set up a watch. It means a lot to me to know I have your support and I am always very excited when FF sends me those notifications. :)

Secondly, thanks to Quietly-Confident for pointing out that FF was somehow eating my formatting. It seems like four dashes in a row center aligned to create a pause (the technical name is eluding me and on the tip of my tongue; bonus points to whoever tells me what they're called) get eaten up by the formatting tool and become... NOTHING! So in lieu of those, I will start using 3 dots.

...because 4 dots also get eaten.


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